No, Thanks
by Hamnet Hensley
Summary: Post "Wilson's Heart". Cameron checks up on House.


"Hey… how are you holding up?"

She caught you off-guard in your office. You were too busy watching the rain outside your window, thinking about the past couple of weeks. It was such an overly emo scene for someone to walk in to. You realize that now and note to make yourself more miserable for it later on. You look down.

"Wilson hates me. We haven't really spoken since," you murmur to your shoes.

Cameron walked from the glass door and took a seat in the chair across from you at your desk. You don't even have to look at her to see the pity written all over her face. You continue to stare at the patterns on your beloved carpet.

"I'm sure he'll come around eventually. He always does". Optimistic Cameron.

Typical.

"I don't think he will this time."

"House, this was such a huge thing for him. Give him the time he needs."

You ignore her. "I texted him for a ride home yesterday. He never responded. He always texts me back. I brought the bike and it hasn't stopped raining since. It's obvious he hates me." You look up and chuckle. "God just loves putting rain clouds over me, huh."

"Thought you didn't believe in god," Cameron tries.

You look at her for the first time since she came in.

"Yeah…"

The carpet returns.

"Well, how'd you get home then?"

"Didn't."

"You could have asked Cuddy-"

"Screw Cuddy."

"You could have taken the bus."

"The hell I'm taking the bus ever again in my life."

Silence.

You get the feeling that the carpet is now sharing Cameron's gaze. Who knew carpets could be so interesting.

You hear the chair squeak as Cameron shifts uncomfortably from the silence. She breaks the silence. You know you would be able to sit in silence for the rest of the day.

"You stayed here last night?" You can practically hear the oozes of pity coming out of her mouth and splashing onto the floor.

"If you mean 'here' as in my office, then no. However, if you mean 'here' as in the hospital, then yes. I found an empty patient room. Quite comfortable, by the way. No wonder we won the Hospital of the Year Award."

Sarcasm. Number one lame attempt at avoiding crappy conversation.

Cameron nodded her head in absent-minded agreement.

"Wanna go out for a drink then?," she asks.

"Why? So you can have your wicked way with me?"

She chuckles lightly and rolls her eyes.

"No, so maybe you can get your mind off-"

You're suddenly serious. You cut her off.

"-So that I can kill the next victim with my drunkenly habits?"

Cold. Blunt. It is unnerving; for the both of you.

It was supposed to be rhetorical. Apparently, too subtle.

"No. House, a couple of drinks isn't going to hurt anyone."

"Sure, you say that now."

She sighs. "You've got to stop doing this to yourself."

"Doing what?!" You stand up. "Since when is getting ridiculously drunk to forget about problems the solution to a problem!? In my opinion, a hangover is also problem. You want me to just drink that away come morning too? It really is a nice cycle to live by. No wonder you're always so jolly, Cameron."

Cameron looked defeated at that point. Good. Maybe she would finally go away.

"You've got to stop hiding away like this. Alone. In your office. Have pizza with a friend, or something, for god's sake."

You look at Cameron. Familiar words.

"Are you implying having pizza with you, Cameron?"

"Just anyone, House. Ask the janitor, a patient, anyone."

"Like they'd say yes."

Pessimism. You love it. You need it.

"You'd be one lucky bastard if Wilson's still your friend," Cameron murmurs.

Ahh, yes. The original argument. Not really an argument though; that last statement was true.

"Yeah… I know," you say rather sadly.

You feel as if chances are extremely slim for you and Wilson to reunite again, and it hurts to know that you are usually right.

"Well," Cameron starts, "I think I'll be heading home now. It's getting late."

You nod. She gets up and looks out the window.

"You need a lift home?," she asks.

You consider this offer for a second.

"No, thanks. I think I'll stay here again tonight."

She nods understandingly at your ways. She walks around the desk and places a hand on your shoulder.

"House, he'll come around. Give him time. God knows how much time he's given you for everything. It's only fair that you return the favor."

You sigh, then whisper, "I'm not fair." Her brow furrows as she listens to you intently. "I shouldn't even be alive. I can't live like this."

"You'd be surprised what you can live with."

And with that, she walked out of your office with a frown on her face.

You take off your blazer, walk over to your recliner, and lie down. Screw finding an empty patient room. Your recliner is less comfortable anyway. You deserve that much. You don't even take any Vicodin. You use your jacket as your makeshift blanket. It is pathetic.

Before you force yourself into a pointless slumber, your phone vibrates. You take it out of your pocket and flip it open. You stare at it for a moment.

You get up, put your blazer back on, and walk out of the office.

You smile.


End file.
